Let's Be Alone Together
by Prussium
Summary: Arthur Kirkland expects nothing eventful for his university life comeback until the dorky, sprightly, and disarmingly charismatic Alfred Jones comes along, taking his world by storm. They are soon to learn that it's all fun and games until you fall in love for real. Prequel to 'Twenty Months'. (USUK/UKUS AU)
1. Hello, my name is

**Chapter 1**

**Hello, my name is**

I won't be surprised if London will officially replace Venice as The Floating City one day. The consistent torrential rains are enough to sink the entire city quicker than it ever did in Venice (oh, London, you never change). And this particular October day is no exception.

I'm running late for class and my umbrella is dripping by my side. I slow down to brisk walking as I arrive at my hallway, peeking through the rectangular windows in the doors.

What period is it again? What classroom? God, I knew I should've kept a class schedule on my phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland. You may take your seat at the back."

Professor Anderson, Sociology. Right.

"Good morning, Sir," I say. "Sorry."

I duck my way to the last row, half expecting the wall to swallow me so I can remain invisible the entire period. I never like drawing in attention to myself, especially when I'm the oldest student in all of my classes; I find it rather shameful at times. Punctuality is not an issue at all – I consistently follow my morning routine without failing, except today, because the blasted alarm clock didn't go off and the train was extremely late. I start thinking I'm in on a joke the universe has set up for me.

Four empty seats stretch between me and the American late comer. I can't recall his name; we only talked once when he started attending class last week. Bent over his seat, he's doodling at the back of his notebook while pretending to listen. How typical of a Business major. If I'm in a joint class that favours Business majors, I may behave the same as well.

He gives me a small smile when our eyes meet from time to time. I don't give anything in return, though I watch him through my peripheral vision.

Everything must be strange to him: living in another place where no one knows his name and dealing with people and their way of life. I bet he feels like he is learning English all over again.

I wonder if he feels like the odd one out.

And I wonder why my mind flutters to my foreign seatmate when the lecture calls for more attention.

My pen jumps out of my hand and rolls to the base of his seat.

Without a second thought, he bends over to get it. He reaches out, smiling with his eyes.

I take my pen and thank him.

What does his smile really mean? He can be judging me for all I know. Mocking because why the hell will someone in his late twenties – particularly a twenty-nine-year-old – still be in uni? Does my face show my age? I imagine creases and wrinkles growing visible in my skin. Paranoia has invaded my mind since I re-entered the university grounds.

The professor says something that steals my attention. I appreciate that he doesn't mind my tardiness. Some professors aren't like that. They can be so unforgiving; making you the flavour of the entire lecture and reiterating your mishap so you will never dare to do it again.

The rest of the lecture flows smoothly, engaging the class about primate cities. I listen while my classmates nod their heads and raise questions. I let it take me back to my homeless days when I tramped around the world as if I owned it.

A daydream flies me outside the window. I'm in the winterless lands on the other side of the globe, basking under the tropical sun...

* * *

I sit outside a coffee shop for a smoke and leisure-reading after class. It's hard to find time for my books these days because academic readings have crowded my schedule.

The sun claims its spot in the sky, but the air remains crisp. I stretch my legs, knowing my loafers are safe from the rain.

My friends and I used to frequent this non-commercial coffee shop back before I quit uni. We take the circle tables and agree that it's a thousand times better than the overrated ones people our age love patronising. It will be nice to be with their company again. I keep in mind to message them online and ring the ones around the city.

Just when I thought the grey clouds had ceased pouring over the city, it begins to rain again. What's worse is I left my umbrella under my seat in Sociology class.

"Bloody hell."

I slump back to my seat in defeat.

A shadow emerges on the glinting wet pavement, growing bigger by the second. My American classmate approaches me with my umbrella above his head.

"Uh, hey, man," he says. "You sit by me in Sociology, right? I believe this is yours?"

He speaks in a funny accent that I can't label specifically, but I dismiss the thought.

"Yes, thank you," I tell him. "Have a seat, er..."

"Alfred," he says, stretching a hand. "Alfred Jones. Business Management and Marketing Communications."

"Arthur Kirkland," I say and give his hand a firm grip. "History."

He sits across me and wipes the raindrops from his eyeglasses. His eyes are bluer than I thought, like the sea meeting cloudless skies. He combs his damp hair with his fingers. A stubborn blond strand sticks out from his widow's peak.

He smiles when he catches me studying him.

I hope to God he will carry the conversation for the rest of his stay because it will be very strange if he doesn't.

"Wanna go inside? It looks like it'll rain harder and people will occupy all the seats soon," he says.

I return my book and cigarette box inside my satchel, and bring my teacup along.

There are only three empty tables left and we almost run our way to the nearest one. Putting his bag on his seat, he approaches the counter. I continue reading.

"Are all your classes over?" He comes back with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

I nod.

"Mine too." He sips his cup to think about what to say next. "What other classes do we have together?"

"Only Sociology, I'm afraid," I say.

"What year are you?" he asks because it's a crime to ask people's age.

"I'm in my third year," I say. "I left uni a couple of years ago and came back just in time for the first semester. Fortunately, they credited my first two years so I'll just have to catch up with a few subjects."

He nods, delighted that I have given him my longest reply as of yet. "I'm in my first," he says, "I took a gap year and left the US, you might have guessed."

"Why England?"

He shrugs like a little boy. "For a change?"

There are hundreds of countries to choose from and I don't understand how his answer singles out England from the rest, but I don't tell him.

It occurs to me that the bloke has just come from the comforts of high school life and is probably trying his hardest to find home in this new city. I, on the other hand, return and rediscover the life I've left, which feels like starting from scratch.

We can't be very different from each other.

"Did I miss anything while I wasn't around?" I ask.

He looks up from his cup. "Nothing much. Just an announcement for the first short test next meeting."

"I see."

"Do you mind if I borrow your notes?" he asks. "I couldn't concentrate on the lecture today."

I blink and reach inside my bag. "Yeah, I notice you looking at me once in a while."

He doesn't say anything for a second. He downs his coffee.

"How did you know?" His face breaks to a smirk. "That means you're looking at me, too."

I want to spit my tea but I figure it's not how civilized people react to such assumption.

I let him browse through my notes without a word. He fills a page of his small notebook with sloppy penmanship as I carry on reading. When he finishes, we agree to leave, predicting the rain won't stop soon. And because he doesn't have an umbrella, I offer walking him home.

The walk is uncomfortable as we are cramped inside the protective shield of my umbrella. Avoiding puddles, rushing passersby, and skidding cars, it's an obstacle course. He navigates in a way that spares his sneakers from a miserable fate, but spatters mud on the back of my pressed pants. I carry on pretending not to notice.

We finally reach his apartment complex and a doorman greets us.

"Thank you," he says, giving me that ridiculously bright smile of his.

"Don't mention it," I reply.

As I'm about to say goodbye, he grabs my arm and says, "L-Listen, I really appreciate you talking to me today." He contemplates on his muddy shoes.

I wait for him to say more, but all he adds is, "See you in class."

Years of experience help me meet people from all walks of life and I know he's the kind whose awkwardness disappears with friends, which reminds me that I haven't seen him with any group of friends yet. Conversations like this come and go (he will soon find his respective place and create a bubble of comfort around him, I'm sure), but I can't see any problem being friends.

"See you."

I open my umbrella and brave the heavy downpour. I head back to my flat, shivering from the recurring thrills of student life, deciding to take the seat beside Alfred Jones next time.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_If you think Alfred is a tad too shy and awkward, wait for the next chapters. eue_

_shall i continue _


	2. Two less troubled souls

**Chapter 2**

**Two less troubled souls **

I was right when I said his awkwardness disappears over time. Since the next meeting in Sociology, I was reaffirmed that scratching the surface only takes a little time.

From sharing seats, we now progress to sharing a light on cigarette breaks (honestly, who smokes without a light?). The bloke even asks for a spare stick at times, for goodness' sake! But before he gets the impression that I approve of his getting thoroughly comfortable with me, I draw the line on a perpetual last name basis.

"Time to go back to class, Jones," I say, crushing my finished stick underfoot.

"What? We have three minutes left," he says. He frowns at his wristwatch. "And I don't really feel like going back to class."

You must be blind not to notice how this cruel November weather brings temptation. Still early in the month, the temperature goes on a steep decline day by day, leaving the city at the mercy of a grey darkness while giving everyone an excuse to flaunt their designer overcoats. A girl with an 'I heart rain' umbrella tiptoes through the heavy rain and passes with a smile.

"Can you not, like, go back to class? You know you're bored with it," he says with a casual puff.

See what I'm talking about? His awkwardness? Gone!

It's all on the surface.

Telling him my opinions about institutional requirements is a mistake. Yes, I don't comprehend the significance of including such subjects to the curriculum, but that doesn't mean I must abandon and fail them. I may be idle with disinteresting matters, but I can be competitive as fuck if I want to.

I must admit that I'm still in my adjustment period months after coming home, still reflecting whether or not it's a brilliant idea to go back to studying. Decisions, decisions...

"Have to play the Teacher's Pet sometimes." I give him a pat on the shoulder. "I'll see you later.

* * *

The following week, he invites me to parties and introduces me to his fellow Business majors. Truth be told, I'm happy he's making a lot of friends like I expect in the first place, and I appreciate that he's asking me to tag along, I really do, but I rather spend the nights by myself.

"Hey, are you coming tonight? We can take my car," he tells me, ready to hop on the usual pub.

"I'll pass," I say. "I've got something to do."

His face catches what seems like a shadow of disappointment. "Alright then," he replies. "Enjoy the night."

"You as well."

We part ways in peace. He walks to his car while I head to this bookshop and coffee bar I discovered a week ago. It's more of a past time, really, discovering new nests around the city for rest and relaxation. I like bookshops in particular because they make me feel at home. This bookshop's homemade ice cream and cosy, vintage sofas keep me coming back.

I take this table with adjacent seats, chucking my bag on the empty seat across. A wall displays a dry rose, old coins, toys, and diskettes – separately framed little mementos from the past years. Silver spoons and forks dangle from the ceiling, linked together by strings, shining through the dim reading light. Time flies fast into my private literary world until a voice steps uninvited, putting the concept of time on hold.

"So you're a Tom Hiddleston."

Alfred Jones's physical form appears out of thin air.

"'Scuse me?"

"Tom Hiddleston," he repeats. "The ever well-dressed, attractive, literature aficionado." He points to a group of girls huddled together near the entrance. "See those ladies? They're giggling about you."

I blink, at an utter loss of words. "Are you jealous?"

I close my book and take my leave, ignoring the curious eyes of mentioned ladies as he follows me outside.

"What do you want, Jones?" I ask. "Go back to your friends."

"Stay for a while," he says. "Please? I just," – he heaves a sigh – "Look, I just want to talk to you, okay?"

The fact that it takes him a lot of effort to say those words amuses me. We sequester an outdoor table; I sit opposite him, folding my leg over the other. "What's your game?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What's your game? Why are you stalking me?"

"I-I wasn't stalking you! I saw you when I passed by outside," he says. And hesitates, fidgeting with his hands. "Tell me about yourself."

He's tongue-tied while I'm tongue-in-cheek, my nonchalance dissolving his intentions. He better produce a good reason to convince me why I must waste my time on him, but it seems like we're back to introductions. I give him a brief review on my coming back to uni in case he already forgot about that.

"What?"

Alfred Jones is looking at me strangely. Why is he looking at me strangely? I don't think my indifferent statement warrants a dreamy grin.

"I like your eyes," he says, holding back his grin that only grows wider.

I breathe out a harsh laugh. "Are we playing that card now? Really?" I challenge him. "Is that all you can do?"

"Oh, come on," he protests. "I'm serious!"

"Well, thank you."

"Are you always this mean to your new friends?"

"Are we friends?"

Friends don't usually say they like each other's eyes.

"Come on!" he says again, defeated. "We spent the past few nights together. Doesn't that count?"

"Oh, alright, we're..." I pause to feign deep thinking. "_Almost_ friends."

The senseless grin returns to his face. I can't remember knowing anyone who smiles that much.

"That's good enough for me," he says. "But you already told me about that. I want to know _more_. Tell me why you quit school. You never told me about that. Why do you prefer spending Friday night on a bookshop rather than a pub?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You got something against that, mate?"

"N-No! That's why I'm asking you about it," he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Jesus Christ."

I light a stick before I begin, buckling up for the long ride. I guess there's no turning back now that he's asked what people always want to know about Arthur Kirkland.

"For years, books were my only escape," I say.

He nods attentively.

"I immersed myself with reading because it was the best way I could visit places. My family could barely afford vacations, not with five boys to support, so I've always waited for my friends to come back and tell me about their trips," I continue. He doesn't interrupt nor does anything annoying, which I find odd knowing his short attention span. "I constantly wished I could be somewhere else. Don't get me wrong; I love this city. 'When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,' as the quote says, and so here I am."

London will always be my home, but at that time, there was the entire world to see, and I wanted to see it for myself.

Flicking my cigarette on the ash tray, I tell him, "Why are we talking about this? I get too philosophical and shit."

He has his chin on his palm, his eyes holding that dreamy look again. "Go on. I like it."

I offer him the box of cigs. "I gave up uni some x years ago with visions of a promising career and the world waiting for me," I say. "I was the odd one out in the family. I often clashed with my brothers because they couldn't get me. My life was a labyrinth and I wanted to escape it. I wanted to see the world and so I grasped the opportunity as soon as it came."

As an inexperienced university dropout, I had nothing to offer but myself. I stared modelling for a number of clothing lines, and from there, I worked to make a name for myself, earned my own money, and created connections.

I had come across some reflections along the way. At some point, I watched how everyone seemed to develop an obsession with money, working just to sustain their fancy, materialistic desires. I figured that I didn't want to be a sell-out. I didn't want to compromise my worth for money, and thus began my soul-searching, my seemingly unending journey from city to city in pursuit of satisfaction.

Nostalgia visits me like an old friend as I walk down memory lane. As he asks from time to time which city I prefer – Paris or Barcelona, Los Angeles or New York, Tokyo or Sydney, I quench his interest in my silly (mis)adventures. Telling him little stories from my previous jobs and side trips with newfound friends and boyfriends (things that I've told other people before, nothing new), I watch him from start to finish, his eyes gleaming with the same, inviolable longing I've had before.

"What about you?" I ask. "Tell me your story."

Each of us has finished two cups of espresso by now; discussing matters that are commonly talked about over alcohol.

He dwells in silence, unsure where to begin. "I have a twin brother... He's in Amsterdam right now," he says, fiddling with his cigarette. "I already told you about the gap year. We spent it together and travelled around Europe. Both of us didn't know what to take up for college, but we happened to slump back to good ol' double degree in Business Management and Marketing Communications."

I reach for another stick, but the pack is already empty. "You owe me three packs now."

He chuckles. "Do I?"

"Yes, you do," I say. "Before I demand you to fetch me one, continue with your story."

He holds back from telling me more, claiming that he doesn't have many stories to tell, but I drag him along memory lane because it's unfair to retrace it alone. He's quite good at detours, I must say, ceaselessly diverting the conversation towards me. I don't know how we got into this part where I start telling him off to leave my Facebook alone after he asks about this Cadbury commercial video that was recently tagged to me.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe it was _you_," he says, looking at me like I'm a myth. Blimey, does he ever stop smiling? I won't have second thoughts if he asks me to help him zip his mouth.

"I remember seeing that commercial when we were here for vacation. I was like, ten?"

I have never wanted to slam my head on a wooden table so quickly.

Bloody wanker.

* * *

Once I formulate an Alfred Jones Escape Plan, I venture to my friend's pub for our rendezvous. What a happy coincidence it was to come across him on our last pub crawl. We haven't seen each other for ages!

The wavy blond behind the counter looks at me with recognition the moment I enter.

"Arthur, it's so good to see you again!" he greets me with a subtle French accent.

Meet Francis Bonnefoy (Frahn-CEES Bunne-FWAH), my aromantic asexual ex. It's actually François, but he prefers Francis when in the UK. And yes, he's my ex. He's only come into terms with the whole aromantic asexual business after we broke up. Now, he's happy floating around and giving love advice to the needy as we remain good friends, keeping tabs on each other.

He calls a bar staff to take his place and serves me a pint of bitter as we catch up on the past few months.

"What made you stay in your most detested city?" I ask him, looking at the Thursday night pub goers. "Serving English beer to Englishmen who drink themselves into oblivion? How charming."

"What possessed you to go back to uni?" Francis strikes back.

Aside from the long history of platonic understanding that we share, our relationship is mostly made up of healthy insults and deeply-rooted hatred towards each other. You know, the typical Anglo-French friendship.

"The main goal is getting a diploma, which will possibly earn my peace of mind because honestly, I'm worn thin from years of homelessness," I tell him, hoping to proceed with another topic.

He nods and bombards me with his next question. "So when did you start dating?"

I feel the ale invade my nasal cavity. "Pffwhat?! We're not – we're not dating!"

"Why not? He's cute," – he wiggles his eyebrows – "_L'Américain._"

Francis makes me want to reconsider all my life decisions when he talks like that.

"Oh, please, you can keep him," I say. "He follows me around like a puppy and he doesn't let me leave without buying me something since the day I told him he owes three packs of cigarettes!"

He plays with his precious hair, twirling some strands around his finger as his lips curl to a smirk. "Looks like you found yourself a new toy, _non_?"

I exhale sharply and down my last shot.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_I'm logging off from real life for a while bc I'm super stressed out rn. ;u; Hope you liked the update. I decided to turn this into some sort of drabble series. Expect drastic time skips and painstakingly slow updates because 1) I'm working on another multi-chaptered fic at the same time, and 2) I'm going away for a three-month trip v soon. I'll be on hiatus most probably, but I assure you I won't abandon this story. If you have some questions, you can find me on Tumblr. uwu _

_Got your two cents to throw? _


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